Reaching for Light

Public display of menorahs – meant to share a holiday message – has ignited both pride and controversy

Salt Lake City, UT — Last year in Brighton, England, the menorah was made out of pastries. Here in the United States, some of the more creative building materials have included chocolate, Legos and hard candy. Others have simply been gigantic, wowing with size rather than ingredients.

With Hanukkah, also called the Jewish “festival of lights,” fast approaching, Chabad Lubavitch emissaries the world over are gearing up for what has become an annual event: the very public lighting of Hanukkah menorahs, multibranched candelabra, to commemorate the eight-day holiday.

Whether they stand 30 feet tall and require cherry pickers to light them, or are made of sugar, the idea is to make an impression. And on Dec. 17, Salt Lake City’s Rabbi Benny Zippel intends to do just that when an enormous block of ice, at the skating rink of Salt Lake’s Gallivan Center, will be transformed by power tools into a 7-foot menorah.

The intent is not to “superimpose the Jewish holiday over everyone else’s holiday,” Zippel says. Rather, it’s “to celebrate and to share the message of the holiday – which is the predominance of light over darkness – with as many as possible.”

In addition to the 613 mitzvot, or commandments, listed in the Torah – the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, given in the Jewish calendar year of 2448 (1312 B.C.) – there are what Zippel calls “rabbinical commandments” that came in subsequent years.

Observance of Hanukkah is one of them.

The Hanukkah story is one of military might and miracles. The holiday commemorates a revolt in 165 B.C. in which Judah the Maccabee led a small group of Jewish warriors to victory against ancient Israel’s Syrian-Greek occupiers. After reclaiming the ransacked Holy Temple in Jerusalem, the Maccabees wanted to rededicate the Temple by lighting the menorah inside. But there was only enough sanctified oil to last one day. The miracle of Hanukkah, Hebrew for “dedication,” is that the oil lasted for eight days, allowing enough time to produce additional oil.

In the broad scheme of things, Hanukkah is not the most important of Jewish holidays. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Passover – these are biggies. But because Hanukkah falls near Christmas – the holiday begins Friday night this year – it’s gained prominence, especially among Jews living in largely Christian societies.

Not until the years after the Holocaust and the 1948 establishment of the state of Israel did non-orthodox, mostly assimilated American Jews openly and publicly take pride in their identity. Jewish parents, by then experiencing greater economic security, offered eight nights of gifts, lit menorahs in their windows, even decorated Hanukkah bushes – all of this in answer, at least in part, to Christmas trees, Santa Claus and the onslaught of yule tidings.

Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, then the Rebbe or leader of Chabad Lubavitch, took notice and saw potential.

Known for his Jewish outreach campaigns, Schneerson viewed publicizing Hanukkah as a natural progression. Getting unaffiliated Jews to study Torah, spend hours in synagogue or recite lengthy Hebrew prayers wasn’t easy. But getting them to light candles, eat traditional oil-fried foods – such as latkes, or potato pancakes, and jelly donuts – and spin dreidels, that was something Chabad could do.

The large public menorah and Hanukkah celebration craze began in San Francisco when rock promoter Bill Graham got behind the 1975 Union Square lighting of a 22-foot mahogany and steel menorah. Four years later, on the opposite coast, President Jimmy Carter took a break from the Iran hostage crisis to step outside and help light the first menorah on the White House lawn. With that, this signature Chabad event was sealed, and the lightings spread worldwide.

These mammoth menorahs, however, made many Jews cringe with embarrassment. Furthermore, they stirred up controversy, especially when they appeared on public land. On the one hand, American Jews could find comfort in the recognition of their winter holiday. But, as Sue Fishkoff writes in her book, The Rebbe’s Army, many also wondered “What about the separation of Church and State? If there is something disturbing about public displays of baby Jesus in his manger, why should two-story-high menorahs be any more welcome?”

Turns out, for many Jews, they were not, Fishkoff explains. Voicing opposition with the American Civil Liberties Union were many national Jewish organizations, among them the Anti-Defamation League and the American Jewish Congress. The fervor came to a head in 1986 when a group of organizations sued Chabad and the city of Pittsburgh over the public menorah that stood beside a towering Christmas tree on the city hall steps . Meantime, and also part of the suit, a Nativity scene was displayed in the Allegheny County courthouse.

This final case, Allegheny County v. ACLU, went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which handed down a mixed ruling in 1989. The Nativity scene had to come down, as it stood alone and was viewed as carrying a singular religious message advocating Christianity. The menorah, on the other hand, was deemed acceptable because – beside a Christmas tree – it was considered part of a larger, overarching holiday display.

Rabbi Benny Zippel, Chabad’s first and ongoing emissary to Salt Lake City, arrived in the summer of 1992. When winter approached, he called Rabbi Fred Wenger – then-rabbi of Congregation Kol Ami, Utah’s largest synagogue – to discuss menorah plans. Wenger voiced his preference in Zippel sticking to private property, which Zippel did his first year when he put up the menorah at Salt Lake City’s Foothill Village. But in 1993, Zippel says a woman from the city’s Gallivan Center, a public plaza, called and requested that Zippel set up a menorah there. With an extended invitation, who was he to say no?

What followed produced a file of articles and clippings Zippel holds on to today. The Society of Separationists and the Utah chapter of the ACLU threatened to sue Salt Lake City. Then Mayor Deedee Corradini called an emergency council meeting to figure out the city’s stance. Zippel remembers awaiting the city’s decision on Gallivan Center. He stood beside his big menorah, surrounded by a flock of about 40 supporters – none of them Jewish, he says – who told him not to back down.

He didn’t have to.

Corradini, who’d recently returned from Washington, D.C., issued a statement about the public menorah: “If it’s good enough for our nation’s capital, it’s good enough for Salt Lake City.” And with the addition of some festive lights, to fill the space between the Gallivan Center’s menorah and Christmas tree, the Society of Separationists was placated. Kathryn Kendell, Utah’s staff attorney for ACLU at the time, sent a letter to Zippel stating that as long as Chabad stuck to the rules of proper menorah placement, ACLU of Utah would refrain from legal action.

In the years since this brouhaha, Zippel has lit mega-menorahs in additional locations, including ZCMI Center. The large candelabra, courtesy of Chabad Lubavitch, have become a mainstay in cities across the globe – including Katmandu, Moscow and Berlin. Close to 11,000 Chabad public menorahs are put up each year. An additional 10,000 menorahs are mounted on cars, reports Rabbi Zalman Shmotkin of the media center at chabad.org.

This “in your face” Judaism that “Chabad is famous for,” no longer bothers Jewish communities at large the way it once did, Fishkoff says. Part of that, she continues, is a testament to the times.

Turn on the radio, you might hear Adam Sandler’s “Hanukkah Song.” Flip on the television, Jon Stewart is there to greet you with an “Oy.” Stroll into a movie theater, and Borat awaits you.

In light of all of this, menorahs you can eat, melt or climb seem to fit right in.